


Of Gods and Princes

by Gimli_s_Pickaxe (orphan_account)



Series: Chasing Spring [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, God!Merlin, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Powerful Merlin (Merlin), Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26065060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Gimli_s_Pickaxe
Summary: “I think I’m going to be your manservant,” Merlin announces, one day, and Arthur almost chokes on thin air.“No,” Arthur says, because Merlin is a god, for – someone’s sake, and Arthur doesn’t want the first noble to raise their hand for a reprimanding slap turned into a worm, or something worse.Merlin simply frowns, petulant. “Why? I think I’d be quite good, if I got the hang of it.”Arthur presses his hand over his eyes, a pounding headache in the making, and sighs.Or: Merlin wants to spend more time with Arthur, and thinks becoming the prince's manservant is a splendid idea. Arthur disagrees.Part 2 of the Chasing Spring series.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Chasing Spring [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885876
Comments: 35
Kudos: 363





	Of Gods and Princes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to all who have read, bookmarked, commented, and kudosed Chasing Spring! I was very seriously blown off my feet :]
> 
> Now, the Sequel. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. :)

“I think I’m going to be your manservant,” Merlin announces, one day, and Arthur almost chokes on thin air.

“No,” Arthur says, because Merlin is a god, for – someone’s sake, and Arthur doesn’t want the first noble to raise their hand for a reprimanding slap turned into a worm, or something worse. Not to say, of course, just how fundamentally wrong the whole idea is.

Merlin, though, looks blissfully unawares of Arthur’s concerns, because he simply frowns, petulant, and replies, “Why? I think I’d be quite good, if I got the hang of it.”

Arthur presses his hand over his eyes, a pounding headache in the making, and sighs. _Whatever has led up to this?_

Well, to understand that, first – Arthur must go back to a few weeks ago, back when it had still been early spring. When Arthur had called and Merlin – Emrys – had answered.

◈

It takes a while for Arthur and Merlin to find their footing.

Even settling on a name is difficult. Arthur spends days fluctuating wildly between ‘Emrys’ and ‘Merlin’, settling for a strange blend of the two more often than not. It’s a terrible mess, until the god corners him one day and puts his finger on Arthur’s mouth, firm.

“I told you once, and I’ll tell you again,” he says. “It’s Merlin. To you; only to you.”

It feels like Arthur has been given a priceless gift, a piece of the god himself, and Arthur can’t even begin to fathom the worth of it. Arthur simply nods, wordless.

It is Merlin after that.

There’s a whole other mountain of issues too, though, starting with the fact that Arthur’s significant other could crush Arthur like an ant with less effort than lifting a finger. It’s vaguely disturbing, and also quite terrifying, especially when Arthur suspects that they’re headed towards an argument. Arthur still remembers, in vivid detail, how Merlin had been when facing down those wyverns – it is something he would be happy to never see ever again, and especially never aimed towards him. He remembers the blinding light, the heat, searing-hot like a strike of lightning and several times more terrifying, the way the fabric of reality had seem to twist and spin about them.

Arthur prides himself on his courage, but it takes a while even for him to stop walking on eggshells around the god. It doesn’t help that Merlin gives him those _looks_ whenever he catches Arthur at it, fleeting glances under downturned lashes that are chock-full of hurt and regret and why-don’t-you-trust-me’s, and they cut Arthur straight to the bone. But Arthur is only human, too, and Merlin is a lot to take in, even in his least threatening of forms.

Even as they settle into something like a routine, early morning and late nights spent curled together in Arthur’s spacious, princely bed, moments stolen in between patrols and training and negotiations, that edge of apprehension never quite leaves Arthur’s mind. Merlin’s eyes are touched with regret under the smudge of his lashes, but he doesn’t call Arthur out on it.

Arthur suspects he doesn’t quite know how.

It isn’t perfect, and the fact that Arthur is having an illicit affair with the very god who’d cursed Camelot right under Uther’s nose lends it an edge of secrecy and urgency that has Arthur’s heart beating hard and sweat beading in his hands. There are still so, so many things Arthur and Merlin ought to work out, so many hurdles left to jump – still, it’s without doubt the best thing Arthur has ever had, and he cherishes every moment, every single second of it. He memorizes how Merlin’s skin feels under his fingers, almost crackling with electricity but not quite, how Merlin’s stormy eyes catch the orange of Arthur’s chambers and turn into something indescribably fey and enchanting. He memorizes the glint of light on his cheekbones, his quick laugh and even quicker wit, how Arthur (with increasing courage) would poke fun at him and how Merlin delights in it each and every time.

Merlin smiles at him, sometimes, and Arthur thinks – Merlin knows, too, and he loves Arthur all the more for it.

“I don’t ever get to see you during the day,” Merlin complains as soon as Arthur sets foot into his chambers. To his credit, Arthur doesn’t start and drop the torch on his foot or anything terribly awkward like that – he is getting used to having an all-powerful god as a lover, he supposes.

Arthur wonders if he ought to be more disturbed than he is. It helps that Arthur has probably seen the boy – god – at his most human, though. Working himself up over Arthur’s moods, awkward kisses and fumbling touches about his shirt-sleeves, and, most of all, the tendency to conveniently magic himself away whenever he manages to dig himself into yet another awkward situation. In those respects, it’s almost like having a boy of a lover - (albeit a superpowered one who could raze Camelot to the ground should he be so inclined, but, well, technicalities.)

The god is draped across Arthur’s bed, chin resting on his hands, garbed in a strange, flowing tunic that highlights his fine cheekbones and the startling blue of his eyes. The first time he’d shown up in Arthur’s chambers wearing that, Arthur had told him he looked ridiculous. (Merlin hadn’t, to be honest, but anyone else would have, and there was something so terribly infair about that.) Merlin had laughed at him then, eyes dancing, and called Arthur a prat right before drawing him close and kissing him senseless.

Arthur smiles, fond and apologetic, and says, “There are always people, during the day.”

“You know I could do something about that.”

“I’d rather – you didn’t.” Arthur grimaces as soon as the words leave his lips. He sounds horrifically ungrateful, which he most definitely isn’t – he doesn’t know much about gods, but he does understand that Merlin must care a lot about him if he deigns to lurk about in the shadows of Arthur’s chambers, waiting for him, when he could just as easily have had all of Camelot bowing at his feet. “I mean – I wouldn’t feel comfortable, affecting people like that.”

The memory of an endless winter, cold winds that cut like a knife, is still too raw in his mind. Merlin’s eyes meet Arthur’s, and the understanding there is something both sad and resigned.

Merlin sighs.

“Yes,” he says, “I know.” Then an intangible force is reaching forth to draw Arthur across the room, right into Merlin’s waiting arms. Arthur grunts in surprise. “Some warning next time might be nice.”

Sometimes, Arthur marvels at how much he is allowed to get away with – he is sure that with some gods, he would have been struck down for disrespect before he could even say ‘Oh.’

Arthur can feel Merlin’s smile against the skin of his neck, and again, he marvels at how human this god of his is, how warm, how solid. A sudden warmth jolts through him, and Arthur runs his fingers carefully down the flawless skin of Merlin’s arm, soft, reverent.

“You could make up for it by giving me a hug right now,” Merlin suggests, and Arthur complies.

Who is he to deny Merlin, after all?

A few days later, Merlin is waiting for him again, legs dangling off the edge of his bed, a giant smile gracing his face. It’s the smile Arthur has unofficially dubbed Merlin’s Face of Mischief, that face he gets whenever he’s planning something awfully absurd and un-godly, and Arthur bites his lip. “Yes?” he asks, expectant. Merlin pouts.

“You don’t know that I have something to tell you,” he says. “For all you know, I might just have dropped in because I was unbearably bored.”

“I happen to know you better than that.”

Merlin smiles back at him, then, and his smile is wide and open and happy. “Yes, I know.” he pats the empty space beside him, wrinkling the pristine bed-covers. Arthur heads over, limbs aching; it had been a long day of training that day. The air about Merlin smells like fresh grass and spring flowers, despite Arthur’s chamber windows having been closed for the better part of the day, and Arthur huffs a laugh at the impossible creature before him. “So, what is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that – problem,” Merlin says, waving a hand to indicate Arthur and himself. Arthur raises a brow at that. “You know, _Mer_ lin - ”

“You can’t read minds, I know.” They share a grin at that – a campfire shared, a blanket of snow, icy winds that had somehow never quite touched the two of them. “I think I’m going to be your manservant.”

Arthur almost falls off of the bed. “ _What?_ ”

“It would be so fun,” Merlin grins, eyes sparkling. That’s not a good sign – Arthur usually finds himself wanting to give Merlin anything he wants when he looks like that. It’s unfair, really; that Merlin can look so delicate, so vibrant, when Arthur knows just how much he is under that facade, how – _powerful_.

Merlin is persistent; Arthur really must give him that.

“I’ll have you know,” Merlin says, later, “I think I’d actually be quite good at it.” He waves a hand, and the clutter on Arthur’s desk immediately rights itself, motes of dust streaming off of the desk and out of the window. “See? Perfect maintenance. It doesn’t even take any time.”

Arthur gawps. That’s a new way to houskeeping, for sure – except for the fact that were it anyone but Merlin, who Arthur knows is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, they would probably find themselves on the chopping block before they could say “execution!”.

“You do know that servants _serve_ , right?”

The idea is wrong on so many different levels, and Arthur doesn’t even know where to start. Maybe that Merlin happens to be a god, all-powerful and immortal, and there’s something intrinsically wrong about somebody serving you when they could just as easily destroy the five kingdoms in a blink.

“I understand, _sire_ ,” Merlin says, and there must be something fundamentally wrong with Arthur that the thing makes his heart jolt and his blood uncomfortably warm. Arthur shifts, and Merlin gifts him a knowing look and a smile. “But – think about it. I could be next to you, beside you, every single moment, and no-one would ever question us.” Merlin bites his lip. Arthur’s eyes track it, the faint indent in Merlin’s lower lip, the way it turns Merlin’s expression into something halfway to a pout and also something horribly enticing. “At least give it some thought.”

“You’d have to see my father,” Arthur blurts out, because – that is true; the prince’s manservant can’t not see the king, and Arthur isn’t sure what Merlin might do when he comes face-to-face with his friend’s killer.

Arthur has seen Merlin in a rage, before. It isn’t anything pretty.

Merlin’s expression darkens, and the air crackles with power, an almost-audible snap whipping through the air. The fine hairs on Arthur’s arms stand on end. Merlin spares him a quick glance, and with a barely-there, regretful shake of his head, Arthur can breathe again. “I’ll – manage.”

Merlin’s profile is pensive, half-drawn in shadow from the candlelight, and again, it looks terribly old, dark, weathered. Arthur fights the urge to draw him into his arms and never let him go.

He isn’t sure that Merlin would appreciate it, much. He settles for an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. His smile is wan but appreciative, and he worries his lip for a while before he speaks again. “It doesn’t mean that we’d be the best of friends, far from it,” he says. “Nor will I let any sorcerers die, not when they’ve committed no crime, when I could to something to help. But – you know what happens, when I try to take matters of justice into my own hands.”

Arthur knows.

The starving face of his people, dark and drawn and desperate, the grief and anger; the _cold_.

A shiver runs, involuntary, down his spine.

“I think,” Merlin says, “that I need to learn – to watch, and not interfere.”

Arthur squeezes his fingers in answer.

Arthur still thinks that it’s a horrible idea, though, and he tells him so. Merlin merely gives him an enigmatic grin and shrugs. “Well,” he says, “we’ll see about that.”

Merlin meets Gaius a little while after that.

Merlin has been absent for several days, now, on what Arthur supposes is some mysterious godly business that mere mortals like him is not privy to. Meanwhile, Arthur has managed to injure his leg during training – a hairline fracture, nothing more, Gaius had said, but the elderly physician had added that he would feel a lot more comfortable if he were able to come check on Arthur in regular intervals.

Gaius is more of a father to Arthur than his father has ever been, and Arthur can’t bear to be the source of his concern. His leg is still bad enough that it wouldn’t be wise for him to go about traipsing down the castle’s stairs, so Gaius comes to him.

Merlin hasn’t been around for a while, Arthur reasons, so it should be safe – except, well, Arthur has never really had good luck with these sort of things.

Gaius is bent down in front of Arthur’s knee, some mysterious physician’s instrument in hand, long and tapered and hollow, tapping at the bone and sniew around his injury – when Merlin materializes with a faint pop, behind him.

Arthur makes a frantic motion with his hand to turn around and go away, because _you can’t afford to out yourself so soon, no_ – but Merlin’s curiosity is an insatiable thing once it’s roused, and Merlin has that twinkle in his eyes that drives Arthur absolutely crazy approximately two-thirds of the time, and Arthur knows that he’s done.

Absolutely, irrevocably done.

Merlin’s eyes narrow, shrewd, as he gives Gaius a once-over, and it is almost as if he is dissecting the man below his gaze, seeing inside him, through him, and his head tilts in recognition.

“Ah! You must be Gaius,” he says, voice amiable, friendly smile gracing boyish, fey features, and Gaius actually topples sideways in his hurry to turn around. Arthur cries out, lurching forward, because despite anything Gaius may say he is old and his bones brittle, and there is no way by the gods that a nice tumble may be beneficial to his health. Merlin is faster, though – a warm gust of wind sweeps the physician off his feet and deposits him gently onto a chair, which scoots across the room and turns to face Arthur’s bed. A warm tingle runs through Arthur, almost a caress, and the soft hairs at the nape of his neck crackle and shift.

Merlin makes himself comfortable on the bed. He is in a bit more traditionally Camelotian attire, today, a simple homespun blue tunic over comfortably stretched breeches, feet bare and a few stray flowers wound into his hair. It does nothing to hide the sheer presence of him, though; the fire in Arthur’s fireplace flickers and curls, like a dog eager to come closer to its master, and the scent of fresh grass fills the air.

Arthur has seen the pictures in Gaius’ books. It is unmistakable, really; and Gaius must have come to the natural conclusion, too, because his eyes widen, almost comical, his mouth splitting into a wide smile of joy, of reverence and exultance and everything in between. His eyes are glinting, and when he turns, Arthur thinks he sees a hint of moisture too.

“Emrys,” he whispers, and collapses into a bow at Merlin’s feet. “ _Emrys_.” His voice is stronger the second time around. It should have been hilarious, really, because Gaius could have been his grandfather, white hairs and all, and the scene of Gaius paying homage to a boy who looks younger than Arthur himself is so ridiculous it isn’t even funny. But there is something about the way Merlin’s presence fills the room, every crack and seam and corner, the way he looks utterly inconspicuous yet could never be mistaken as such. The heavy air in the room is like an old prayer returned – reverent, solemn, and Arthur holds his breath.

“Really, Gaius,” Merlin says, helping the flustered physician up, “you shouldn’t. Arthur practically thinks of you as his father, and even _he_ doesn’t bow to me – now, sit, sit. That can’t have been good for your bones.”

And the spell is broken.

“My bones are better than they have ever been,” Gaius says, his characteristic dry humor returning now that he’s regained his feet some, and from the accusing look he’s leveling at Merlin Arthur suspects the god has had a lot to do with that. He sighs, though he probably just looks fond and besotted – he shouldn’t have put it past him to do something in that short span of time, being apparently the ‘greatest’ and all that. “So – you and Arthur?”

The innuendo in the old man’s voice is unmistakable, and Arthur flushes to the roots of his hair. “Gaius!”

“Well, my boy, you did say...”

“I did not say anything whatsoever,” Arthur asserts, leveling a glare at Gaius, and Merlin laughs.

“It’s alright. You are adorable, after all.”

“Adorable!” Arthur jumps, indignant. “You’re one to say that. As far as I remember - ”

“I could still turn you into a squirrel, you know. Adorable.”

Something warm feels Arthur’s heart, right then, that they’ve come to the point where they can joke about things like this without feeling as if they’ve destroyed something small, fragile, budding. That is why Arthur fires right back, “watch out. First thing I’ll do is bite you in the toes.”

Gaius watches their banter with his trademark raised brow. It’s almost as if half of him is set to pull Arthur aside and give him a long lecture on how to treat his betters, and the other half just wants to give in and laugh hopelessly until he’s gasping for breath. After a little while, though, the ruckus calms enough for Gaius to turn towards Merlin, back straight and eyes serious.

“Thank you,” he says, and his voice holds the weight of a thousand words. Arthur doesn’t need words to understand what he is thanking Merlin – Emrys – for. He remembers Gaius’ face as he had recounted William’s execution, the light of joy on his face as he’d welcomed back the spring, that first time in years, ground overflowing with flowers and grass, butterflies clouding the air.

Merlin doesn’t make light of it, for once. He sits, serious, features as if carved in wood, the faint light of Arthur’s fireplace sending spots of gold flickering across his face. He has never looked more a god, never looked more a weary immortal.

“I am not sure,” he says, “if I deserve your thanks. You do understand, old one, that I was the one to blame, the one who brought the curse upon you.”

“Far be it of us to dare presume to know better than the gods,” Gaius replies, making a strange gesture that Arthur does not recognize, but Merlin unmistakably does. An air of fondness permeates his features, a faint melancholy towards a time that once was, that is no more, and he smiles. “Ah, so you do follow the old ways. I had long suspected.”

“Indeed.” Gaius pauses for a moment, his gaze far away, then he adds: “You listened to Arthur. It is not the way of the gods, to take counsel from mere mortals.”

“He is not a mere mortal,” Merlin replies, voice soft, and a tendril of his power curls around Arthur’s wrist, light but possessive. “And you were never mere mortals to me.”

“Your power deems you the greatest,” Gaius says, “but that – is why I bow before you. My lord, know that I am forever pledged to your will.”

It is doing strange things to Arthur’s mind, to hear Gaius, of all people, call Merlin, again, of all people, his lord. It is in moments like these that he realizes just how foreign Merlin is, how different indeed – he bites his lip, presses his fingers against his knees. They have tightened into fists on his legs, before he’s even noticed, and from the brief, flickering look Merlin gives him, he’s seen, too.

“Then come forth, Gaius,” Merlin beckons, and Gaius kneels before him, reverent. Merlin presses the tips of his fingers to his mouth, then against Gaius’ forehead. Arthur feels a faint rustle pulse through the air, a quiet rush of power, and Gaius gasps, eyes blown wide.

“Gaius?” Arthur asks, quizzical.

“A blessing,” Gaius replies, and there are tears in his eyes.

Arthur doesn’t ask further.

Gaius visits Arthur’s chambers several more times after that. Arthur suspects that it is more to catch a glimpse of Merlin than to treat him, because his leg is nearly healed, now, and he teases Gaius incessantly about it.

“Eager to see him, aren’t you?” he grins, and Gaius flushes, ducking his head. Arthur can’t decide whether to be amused or disturbed; he has never seen Gaius this flustered, ever, and it is an image he would have been happy never to have seen. “It’s _Emrys_ ,” Gaius says, by way of explanation. To followers of the old religion, that’s apparently explanation enough.

Arthur lets it be.

Merlin joins them, sometimes, though sometimes he whisks Arthur away for some ‘private time of their own’. (Arthur certainly isn’t complaining.) Merlin, for all his godliness, has always had a way of putting people at ease, with his ready smile and quick words, and Gaius soon warms to the god enough to begin fussing over him, too. Merlin complains right back, and Gaius brightens considerably at that, almost as if he’s always considered Arthur his only son and now he’s got another to call his own.

“I’m adding you to my list,” Merlin grumbles, jabbing a finger at the man. “I think being an owl would suit you.”

“Nonsense,” Gaius replies, “you should still eat breakfast, you know. Being a god doesn’t mean that you’re invulnerable.”

It does, probably, but Arthur doesn’t correct the man. Some days, it almost feels as if he’s grown a little family of his own, right here in the privacy of his chambers. Watching Gaius lecturing Merlin and the boy – god – grumbling right back, usually ending up snaking his fingers through Arthur’s and sending him a look that reads ‘please save me now’, never fails to bring a smile to his lips.

“So, milord,” Gaius says, who absolutely refuses to refer to Merlin in anything but the honorific, “will I be seeing you more around the castle?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, at the same time that Arthur says, “No.” He’s found yet another reason why Merlin’s plan won’t work; if Gaius’ old tomes have bloody illustrations of the boy, what’s to stop the rest of the world finding out? Uther would try to have Merlin beheaded right away, and Arthur had a very bad feeling that it wouldn’t end well for anyone involved.

(He’d told Merlin this, of course. Merlin had simply smiled and pointed out that anyone who had such knowledge would be either ally or foe, and if it were foe, Merlin could simply strike them down. Arthur, thinking back to Merlin’s last bout of smiting – a crater, lots of blinding light, and a lot of pain involved for those being smote down – had disagreed. Vehemently.

‘Oh, I could just make them forget, then,’ Merlin had said, terribly blasé, and that had been that.)

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Do try to get this spat under control before it grows out of hand,” he says, in his best listen-to-me voice, and Arthur groans.

“ _Gaius_.”

Arthur doesn’t have much time to mull over the issue after that, because apparently some great singer – Lady Helen of Mora – is going to come sing at Camelot’s feast, and Uther is determined to make it the most lavish one yet. Thank gods for the plentiful spring, Arthur thinks to himself as he rushes about with a list of things to check over, because otherwise they’d have been hard-pressed to prepare the appetizers alone. The head cook, apparently, had got this great dream of a soup with spring pumpkin and squash that could feed three hundred, and Uther had approved : nothing less for his Great Feast.

Bloody feasts. Arthur will be glad when they manage not to get half of Camelot’s farming population broke for this.

Still -

“She’s apparently a great singer, though,” Arthur tells Merlin one night, as he lies spread across his bed, still clothed, bone-weary and too tired to even lift a finger. Merlin waves his hand, a languid roll, and before he knows it Arthur is down to his smallclothes and tucked snugly into the sheets. Sometimes, Arthur thinks, it’s wonderful to have a lover with mystical powers. Especially when they use it to help him out with everyday tasks like this.

“Hmm,” Merlin says, and is gaze is a thousand miles away. He tilts his head, as if pondering something, and Arthur shifts a little under the sheets, curious. “Why? Do you know something about her?”

“Not – really,” Merlin hums, before shaking his head, absent-minded. “You’re tired. Sleep.”

Arthur tries to protest, but his eyes slide closed almost as if obeying Merlin’s command, and – it’s just so unfair, that Merlin can send him to sleep with a thought, when Arthur is hard-pressed to even fathom what the boy – man – god – is thinking.

Sleep claims him soon, though, a black, welcoming tide, and it isn’t long before Arthur gives in.

Lady Helen is a striking woman with dark hair twisted in a elaborate knot atop her head. She is everything Arthur had thought a famed singer would be, to be honest, with a rich, dulcet voice and just the right amount of pomp, gestures crisp and laced with an expectation to be obeyed, right that instant, _or else_.

A maid dies during her stay, and Arthur tenses for a moment, half-expecting Uther to scream, ‘sorcery!’ and demand a search of all chambers, because Uther’s paranoia only grows with the years, and sometimes anger can cloud even rational thought. The days pass by without a fuss, though - ( _servants,_ Arthur remembers bitterly, _are hardly ever thought of as people. Of course Uther would not have noticed._ ) - and before Arthur knows it, it’s the day of the feast.

The feast is just as opulent as Uther had willed it to be, if not more so. It is a statement of sorts, strong and clear, that Camelot is no longer weak - that anyone who wishes to take her riches as his own will have to go through this first.

Arthur acts pretty much as a crown prince is expected to act, a routine well-learned through years upon years of repetition. Arthur knows – perhaps better than anyone – how to smile courteously, to lend an ear to everyone within a foot-long radius without leaving a single thought of dissatisfaction or neglect. Arthur knows, too, how to glitter and shine and become someone people will gravitate towards, center around, and for all the noble-ladies and young men that flock around him, Arthur would much rather be anywhere else.

He is lulled into a half-trance before the feast is halfway over.

But his sense of normalcy flies out the window the moment he spots a flash of stormy blue, both familiar and out of place.

Merlin must have done – something, like the first time they’d met, because he seems a simple country boy for all means and purposes right now. He’s garbed in rough, simple brown clothes, and a red neckerchief hangs about his neck. The boy fits seamlessly into the tapestry of the feast, just another servant with a quick smile and a jug of ale at the ready. Arthur gapes.

Merlin gives him a cheeky grin and gestures for him to look away. “Can’t be caught staring at a servant,” he mouths, or at least Arthur thinks that is what he meant – can’t be so sure from so great a distance – before he turns and is gone.

No-one seems to notice anything out of usual. Not that many nobles make a habit of memorizing their servants’ faces, but still.

Merlin is going to be the death of him, Arthur thinks, and raises his goblet for yet another toast. The night is young; Arthur still has a while to go before he can retire to the privacy of his chambers.

The night cannot pass any faster for him.

Eventually, the conversation tapers off, the people’s bellies mostly sated and lulled into a pleasant, drunken haze by the wine and ale that had flowed freer than water this night. Customarily, it is now the time for the King’s speech, but today there is a special guest – though jesters and travelling minstrels are often summoned to entertain Uther’s guests, it is not often that a lady of such renown deigns to sing for the King. It is such that someone now announces lady Helen of Mora, and polite applause fills the room in polite, scattered swells.

“It is an honour to sing for you all tonight, in front of such noble lords and ladies,” the woman says by way of an introduction, confident, it seems, that her reputation has preceded her. She sweeps into a low curtsey, the plunging low neckline of her gown pulling taut around her shoulders, glittering silk and tasteful jewels shining dully in the orange light of the hall’s torches.

Then, she begins to sing, and -

Darkness.

◈

To be honest, Emrys – _no, Merlin, always Merlin, to Arthur, as he had been to Will_ – had known who and what exactly this ‘Helen of Mora’ was, the moment she set foot in Camelot.

The woman was a skilled sorceress, Merlin could give her that, but still – her mortal glamour is no match for the Sight of a god. Especially not if the god is Merlin, who has always been a little strange, a little different, even among the gods.

He doesn’t even have to sift through her mind to pick out the suffocating taint that is her ill-will. He tries not to, nowadays, because he knows well enough that mortals cannot read him in return, and it feels unfair to take advantage of them as such. So he had not even been searching, not even trying to look, but she projected her hatred like a weapon, black and harsh and putrid, and Merlin would have been hard-pressed not to notice.

He entertains the thought, for a moment – should he go, strike her down before she can stir up any mischief? Uther’s safety he cannot care less for, but if it is Arthur that she is after – no, he cannot bear that. Arthur is soft and fragile enough as it is, trapped in the brittle shell of a mortal’s, burning bright like a flame but just as short, and if his time with Arthur is cut any shorter than it already is -

No. _No._

But he has learned his lesson, he thinks, and he cannot justify choking short her life when she hasn’t even done anything, yet, so he bides his time, and watches.

The original lady Helen, Merlin hears, had been set to sing for the King’s court at the grand feast to mark the return of spring. If she truly wishes for revenge, payback, then -

Oh.

The sorceress is a creature of magic, at heart, and as thus she could never hide from him. The webs of her plan sift through Merlin’s consciousness in a ragged rush, and Merlin has to clamp down on his power, hard, so as not to lash out at her, drag her forth and demand her to speak in her defence before him, Emrys the Great, the scythe, the reaper, the judge. A son for a son -

Arthur.

No.

But once the instinctive fit of rage has passed, he remembers, with the bitter taint of regret, what he had done for Will – and, he supposes, he really isn’t in any position to judge the woman.

How she chooses to use her gifts does not please him – Magic, to him, had always been something to rejoice in, something of life and rebirth and making ragged things whole. Still. There has been so much hate, so much strife, so much pain and loss and anger that Merlin cannot blame any of them for wishing to hurt the enemy as much as they had been hurt – for wishing to take as much as has been taken from them.

Sometimes, Merlin wishes that gods, too, were perfect, and that he had a solution ready for every ill, every wrong; that he could just snap his fingers and make everything right again.

But alas.

Merlin thinks this is how mortal headaches must feel; he grinds the heels of his palm into his eyes, another vice of Arthur that he’s picked up, and sighs.

A wry smile graces his mouth. Well, he will think of something, when the time comes – it is still a while, yet. And it has been long since he has been able to attend a mortal feast, of any sorts.

He might as well enjoy himself.

He does.

His mortal form must be pleasing enough on the eyes, he supposes, because plenty of nobles deign to look at him twice, to wait and ask his name, to ask him to _bring them another round of this ale, won’t you? It’s rather sweet to-night._

Merlin has lived long enough, at least, to know that they do not refer solely to the ale. He simple smiles, flirtatious and light, and goes to do what he is told.

Arthur finds him, eventually, and his horrified expression is so exaggeratedly comic that Merlin would capture it in a painting and hang it in his chambers, if he could. Merlin simply grins, that carefree smile he has grown so good at, and mouths at him to go mind his own business.

Never so good, he supposes, for a prince to be shown harboring too much affection for a single servant.

He does not have to wait long for the sorceress – Mary Collins, he learns, because he feels the pulse of her magic, leashed tight about her, and it is like a beacon that calls out to him, as clear as day – to enact her plan.

The witch weaves her spell like a tapestry. It would have been beautiful, had it not been for the rage that permeates every thread and strand of it, and Merlin watches, blood rushing behind his mortal form’s eyes, as the first sparks of the spell begin to fill the air.

He waits until the first stage of her spell is finished, and every soul in the room – man, woman, children alike – lie, limp, trapped in a deep sleep.

Mary Collins gathers her magic, then, for a second heave, and Merlin feels how she calls upon her power, how she urges the old walls of the castle to hasten to their rest, feels the grains of stone weaken, brittle, the walls shaking with the strain as Camelot slowly, inevitably, begins to crumble.

Now.

 _Stop_ , Merlin commands, flexing his will. Power, raw and pure and golden, rushes to his fingertips, and he stretches, feeling the entirety of the castle about him, breathing, trembling. _Be whole_.

The sorceress’ will batters against his own, but it is like fighting a river with a paddle, an avalanche with a needle, and soon she subsides, worn, exhausted. It is a battle with a fixed end, Merlin supposes, human sorceress against immortal god, and though Merlin has come out on top – he feels sick, faintly tired, like he is – taking advantage, somehow, making light of her trifles.

Merlin lets go.

The castle walls shudder, a long, invisible sigh escaping their cracks, and still.

Mary looks about, a frenzied light in her eyes, as if grappling for what, who, has dared to stand in the path of her revenge. Her eyes settle on Merlin, soon, the only figure except her in this room who still stands, and when she says, “you,” it is more of a feral growl than actual speech.

“Me,” Merlin agrees, then lets his glamour fall.

He hasn’t ever looked at himself in a mirror in this form, but he can imagine what Mortals see – a golden light, perhaps, a manifestation of the power that is him. Perhaps he stands straighter, walks surer. Leastways nothing like the country boy he so loves to pretend to be.

“You are a god.” the old witch says, and there is resignation in her voice.

“Yes,” Merlin replies.

“You are here to stop me, are you not?” she asks, her voice bitter. She laughs, a harsh, self-deprecating sound, and lets her glamour fall. Young, flawless skin sloughs into wrinkles and sun-spots, her entire figure hunching over, frail, weak, defeated. “I have heard tales, you know, when I was young: that the gods are watching you, that they will judge you for your actions – that if you used your gifts for ill, they will strike you down. I suppose destroying Camelot would count as a sin, if nothing else.” She shrugs. “But what could I have done? It is an eye for an eye, young god. My son was my world. I would destroy his, if I could.”

“I – understand.” and Merlin does, more than she could ever fathom. He sighs. “What would you have me do?”

“At least give me the life of his son,” Mary says, and there is venom in her eyes. “I deserve that much, do I not? I have not studied the old ways, not as diligently as I should have, but I know that much. A life for a life. That is the balance, the great cycle. I deserve that much.”

Merlin should know. It is the very balance he upholds. That is what the worshippers say, no? Emrys, the beginning and the end, the cycle of life and death.

He should, but it is Arthur, and so he - cannot.

“No,” he says, and though his words are soft, he knows that his power fills the room, crackling, tense, because he has never been good at holding himself back when a loved one is at stake.

The sorceress throws back her head and laughs. It is not a happy one. “Oh, you are in love, aren’t you? The little prince – ha. Mark my words: he is Pendragon through and through. He will throw you away like yesterday’s trash before the year is gone.”

Merlin remembers a young prince in the snow, more boy than man, yet, weary, determined, ready to plead before a foreign god for his father’s sins. _I think not_ , he thinks, but he does not speak out loud.

He must have shown an opening, a slip, anything, because the sorceress, with grief-crazed eyes, has drawn a knife with a speed that belies her age, and has hurled it with all of her remaining strength across the room. Merlin feels her magic curl then lash out, a brief, brilliant flare, and she is dead before she hits the ground.

Perhaps she feared the judgement of the boy-god for his lover; Merlin does not know.

He never will.

He pauses, holding the flow of time in his grip, a moment, then two, lingering long enough for him to close the witch’s eyes and bid her pass in peace. Then it is all action – the knife, though imbued with Mary Collins’ dying magic, is still mortal steel, and Merlin plucks it out of the air as he sets time back to its rightful flow, reaching out with a few stray tendrils of power to nudge the nobles back to full wakefulness.

Uther Pendragon, curse him, is the first to wake. That, Merlin should give him – the man has a spine of steel and a will twice as unbending, and his eyes widen in recognition as soon as he takes in the tableau before him : the sorceress’ body, dead upon the ground, the nobles, awakening groggily with cobwebs in their hair, and Merlin, back in his guise of a mortal boy again, the blade of a cursed dagger held tight in his grasp.

“You saved my son,” the King says, thoughtful. “Such dedication deserves a fit reward.”

Merlin would save Arthur a thousand times over if need be.

The thanks of Uther Pendragon, though -

It is a reward he would not wish upon his worst enemy.

“Sire,” he says, simply, the words poison upon his tongue, and bows.

Sometimes, Merlin wishes that gods are as perfect as mortals make them out to be.

◈

“My father wants you to be my manservant,” Arthur blurts out, as soon as he finds Merlin waiting for him on his bed. He shakes his head, disbelieving. “He – did you – enchant him, or something?”

“No,” Merlin replies, his voice cutting. “I did not.”

Sometimes, in moments like these, Arthur is reminded who exactly he is speaking to, who exactly stands before him. Arthur winces. Merlin, for all his aloofness, is sometimes terribly easy to read – Arthur knows that it had been his idea for him to become Arthur’s manservant, somehow, but he also knows that this is the last way he would have chosen to go about it.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” Arthur sighs, loosening his belt. It has only been hours since he has woken from the witch’s spell, and though he’d apparently slept mere hours before – albeit an enchanted one – Arthur is so, very, unbearably weary.

“You knew what the sorceress was up to, didn’t you? When I told you lady Helen was coming. That pensive look, I knew something was up. You knew.”

Looking back, now, it seems so – glaringly obvious, that Merlin had known, somehow, about the alleged great singer; all those strange, faraway looks and subtle frowns couldn’t have been a mere coincidence. Arthur is angry at himself, for not having seen. But he is also angry at Merlin, for not having told him, for not having given him even the merest of hints.

He had thought Merlin would trust him more than that.

He had been wrong, and it hurts more than it has any right to.

“I – suppose I did,” Merlin replies, and there is a shadow on his face that hadn’t been there a night ago. Arthur doesn’t know what has gone on between Merlin and the old witch, but he does know that something profound must have happened, something that struck Merlin to the core, because there is a part of him that is unfathomably distant - faraway, pensive, terribly old, the way Arthur had expected all gods to look.

That is not his Merlin, though, and Arthur wants his Merlin back.

“Look,” Arthur says, biting his lip to stop his frustration from boiling over. “Couldn’t you just have told me? You knew, all this time, when I had no idea that I had a sorceress out for my blood. You could have let me know.”

“But I had it under control,” Merlin says, an adorable crinkle between his brows. But the way he says the words, as if he has no idea whatsoever what has got Arthur riled up so badly – it is so terribly foreign, so – not human, that Arthur feels like there is a gaping chasm between the two of them, deep, ancient, unbreachable, widening even as they speak.

Arthur has never been one to let an obstacle stop him, though, and he refuses to back down.

“Merlin,” he says, “it feels like you don’t trust me. Like – you see me simply as someone to be coddled, looked after, not – not a partner. Not friends, even.”

It would be true, Arthur supposes, because for all that Morgana teases him that he’s got a bloated sense of self-importance sometimes, it doesn’t mean that he dares put his power on par with a god’s. He’s probably like a toddling baby to Merlin, age-wise and also in everything else, but still the fact remains that he would like to mean _something_ in this relationship too.

Or, well, whatever it is.

“Oh.” Merlin’s answer is soft. “Oh.”

Arthur moves forward, leaning a little into the bed, letting his forehead brush with Merlin’s. This close, the god’s eyes have little flecks of gold in them, as if all the disguises in the world could’t quite hide exactly who he is, and his eyelashes flutter, sooty and long, against the glint of cheekbones in the dark. Arthur crushes the urge to press his fingers against those soft lips, see just how far they give, because -

Now is not the time, he chides himself. We’re _talking_.

“Human emotions are – difficult for me,” Merlin says, at last, and he has never looked more humane, more vulnerable, more confused. Arthur wants to draw him into his arms and keep him there forever, for all that the being before him holds the power to blast entire nations out of existence at his whim.

Merlin.

His Merlin.

“Can you at least – try?” Because Arthur refuses to be a second wheel, refuses to be left out, not anymore. Merlin nods, resolute. “Yes,” he says, “I promise.”

The words are imbued with a sense of finality, of destiny, somehow, ringing with something more than Merlin’s voice, and Arthur gasps as their lips meet, chaste at first, longer and lingering more with every pass.

Later, as they lie side by side, holding hands like blushing youths (which they are, or at least Arthur is, anyway) - Merlin says, “Well, there is one good thing that’s come out of the mess tonight.”

“What?” Arthur grumbles, drowsy. Merlin’s reply is disgustingly cheerful. “I’m your manservant now.”

“Gods,” Arthur groans. “I can tell you’ll be a horrible one already. I can’t even boss you around like I could a real one.”

“You could,” Merlin says, tongue in cheek. “I might even enjoy it.”

“I don’t want to be turned into your animal of the day.”

“Oh, please your god, and you’ll never know.”

“ _Mer_ lin!” A pause, then - “I’m – glad, though. That you’ll be – there, now. We won’t have to sneak around.”

“Believe me, Arthur, I am, too. Now sleep. It’s been a long night.”

Merlin doesn’t magic him to sleep, this time around. It’s not anything much, not a grand gesture nor anything close, and yet, to Arthur – it feels sweeter than any victory on the battlefield, any successful patrol, any win on the tourney fields. Because he and Merlin may have a long way to go, yet, but they are taking steps, baby steps – but still, it is progress nonetheless.

Sleep is a while in the coming, but when it comes, it is sweeter than ever before.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so a - should I call it a warning? - to readers : I fear that updates to this series might be a bit slow. :( I actually haven't watched the show (if anyone's noticed), and most of what I write is based off of fanfiction and lots and lots of research on the Merlin fanwiki, so writing somewhat canon-era-ish things takes a lot out of me. So look forward to sporadic updates at the best :O  
> On the other hand, though, I absolutely adore this series and have a plan of epic proportions in mind, and will most definitely try to write it all the way to the finish, so there is that too :>
> 
> That being said, I really hope that you enjoyed this, and wish you all a great day!! :")


End file.
